by M. M. Perry
The aswang let loose another blood-curdling laugh. She was licking the small amount of skin and blood she’d scored from the tips of her claws. Even on its hideous, piggish face, Gunnarr could recognize the smug expression it was regarding him with. He knew then that she believed she’d landed a more serious blow. He took a tentative step forward on the injured leg, scrunched up his face in pain, let his sword drop beside him, and then fell next to it, gripping his leg in feigned agony.
It was all the aswang needed to spurn it to rush in for the kill. She charged at Gunnarr, her mouth open wide, her tusks aimed for his throat. Gunnarr slammed his hand down onto the hilt of his blade and pointed it slightly upwards the moment before she collided with him. She impaled herself through the heart, yet in her fury still attempted one last savage bite. Her body shuddered as she came crushing down onto him, her tusks poking painfully into his chest. The stench of her dying breath overwhelmed Gunnarr and he gagged as he pushed her off him, pulling his sword free as he did. He let the freed blade clatter to the cave floor as he flopped back down, legs still partially stuck under the aswang’s bulk, waiting to catch his breath.
Finally, he pushed himself free, got up and stumbled over to Cass. He knelt beside her and inspected her head. A deep gash opened up high near the back of her head and wrapped around almost to her cheek. Gunnarr looked around and found some old clothes, likely belonging to the last few people unfortunate enough to be inducted into the aswang’s brood. He found the cleanest looking tunic he could and tore it into strips. He bound Cass’ head gingerly and then put her boots back on. Then he gathered his sword and cleaned it with the remainder of the tunic. When he was satisfied, he picked her up, no small feat since she was a warrior—strong, tall and fully armored—and managed to sling her over one shoulder.
“This does not count as our alone time.” he told her as he headed back for the tunnel’s entrance
Chapter 11
Callan had been sitting on the log, brooding, all morning. After Gunnarr had returned to camp with Cass, unconscious, badly injured and bleeding profusely, the rest of the camp had become a whirlwind of activity that left Callan largely untouched. He had been deeply troubled that she had been so seriously injured, yet he could do nothing for her. When the old woman and the enchanter had finally declared they’d done all they could, he’d gone off to bed and spent a fitful, sleepless night worrying alternatively about Cass and his wife. He wanted to make sure Cass would recover, but any delay was cause for concern. His wife was waiting for him back in their kingdom, and he was her only hope. Just a moment wasted in these woods more than was absolutely necessary might mean her death. Staying here to treat Cass’ wounds or worse, having to turn aside and take her to a village healer, was time he could scarcely waste. But Callan did not voice his concerns to the Braldashad. The hulking warrior obviously felt deeply for the rambunctious warrior woman. Callan wasn’t sure who would win in a contest of wills, his against Gunnarr’s, Cass’ life against his wife’s—but he did know who would win in a contest of strength. So he said nothing the night before, nor would he say anything this morning. Instead, he sat on his log and brooded.
Callan wondered at the warrior’s passion for Cass. He simply could not see the attraction. The woman was certainly not ugly, but she was a far cry from a blushing maid inspiring men to fight dragons for her. Despite the old hag’s claims otherwise, Callan was not an idiot nor particularly shallow. He knew beauty wasn’t everything, and that each man sees every woman differently. He thought his own wife, Melody, was the most stunning creature in his kingdom. His mother, however, thought she was dull looking and lacked the elegance and loveliness becoming a proper queen. But it wasn’t her beauty that he loved Melody for, why he’d travel across the world and back for her. It was because she was a gentle, demure woman, so different from the other women at court who were so preposterously ostentatious in both their dress and behavior. She was quick with a sweet smile, a gentle touch, and a softly spoken word of praise or kindness.
Cass couldn’t have been more different from Melody. She was as rough around the edges as they came. Her laughter was loud, raucous and unrestrained. Her clothing was usually dirty and her manners nearly nonexistent. Callan could understand why someone might respect her as a warrior; from what he had seen so far she was brave, honest, and loyal. But as a woman she left, at least for Callan, something to be desired. He could see wanting her as his first knight perhaps, but not his wife. Yet Gunnarr was obviously transfixed by the strange woman. He had listened to the giant Braldashad pace outside his tent for more than an hour early that morning, waiting while Viola tended to Cass, before Callan had finally given up trying to get any sleep, shambled out of his tent, walked by Gunnarr without a word, and deposited himself on what he was beginning to think of as his log.
Callan knew he needed at least one warrior to get them the rest of the way to the temple. He’d even initially only planned on contracting for a single warrior, rather than the two he’d ended up with. Yet he dare not suggest that Gunnarr and the enchanter leave Cass and rest of the party behind to deal with her wounds, while they continued on. He even toyed with the idea of pointing out to the Braldashadian that his own wife’s condition was more serious than Cass’ and that, would she offer her opinion, he was sure Cass would agree with him and put Melody’s welfare above her own. That was something that she and Melody did share in common—their selflessness. That was something Callan had grown to respect in Cass, and perhaps more than Gunnarr, what kept him from insisting the party head out this minute. He asked himself what Melody would have him do, and he couldn’t fool himself. She would never have him leave an injured person behind, especially not someone who’d been injured protecting Callan. He even thought Melody might like Cass, if they ever had a chance to meet. Then he conjured an image of Cass at the castle for tea, the boisterous woman telling inappropriate stories while displaying an appalling lack of etiquette, and thought that meeting unlikely to happen. Yet Callan would make sure as much gold as they could spare would be sent Cass’ way if they completed their task.
Gunnarr and Callan were both roused from their private thoughts when Viola approached and asked Gunnarr over to where she’d been tending to Cass. Callan smiled at her tightly, willing himself not to say anything impatient. He reached into his tunic and touched Melody’s locket again, trying to put himself in Gunnarr’s place. He tried to remain empathetic, imagining how he felt when he first found out that his wife was deathly ill. When the warrior came back, he looked grimly determined.
“She’s finally woken up then?” Callan asked.
Nat looked up hopefully from polishing his sword for the twentieth time that morning. Gunnarr shook his head miserably and sat down near the fire.
“She…” Gunnarr began, then stopped, taking a deep breath before continuing, “would not wish to put your wife in danger. We will secure her in the wagon and continue to Chulpe.”
This was exactly what Callan wanted, to get moving. Yet given the opportunity, he now found that he could not accept the offer. He knew, much to his own annoyance, that it wasn’t right. He knew Melody would never forgive him if he spent another person’s life to save her own. He refused with a shake of his head.
“No. We can’t do that. It could kill her to move her too soon. We can wait a bit longer,” Callan said.
“We’re warriors,” Gunnarr said insistently, “we get injured. Sometimes even killed. But we always, always complete the job.”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t accept that. You’re just going to have to deal with the fact that I’m in charge here,” Callan said, “and we’re not moving her. Not yet.”
“And you,” Callan looked pointedly at Nat, “you should think about this before you decide to take up a profession that puts so much emphasis on duty, and so little on life.”
Nat looked at Callan, and an uncharacteristic blush of anger crept up the normally easygoing boy’s neck.
“I know how they live,” he said petulantly,
“and how they die. How we live,” he corrected himself, and then set back to furiously polishing his sword.
He stopped when Gunnarr put his hand on his shoulder.
“We do value life. But you’ve not been alive until you’ve faced death and turned him aside. Don’t misunderstand me, no warrior wishes to fall in battle, or to see one of our friends fall. But we deal in death, and we accept that for what it is. And a good warrior finds the right balance. Brave enough to do what needs to be done, despite the consequences. But being brave, and being careless, these are two very different things,” Gunnarr said, “and I would never, never be careless with the life of a fellow warrior.”
Nat nodded up at Gunnarr. Gunnarr picked up a tin cup that was sitting next to Nat, dipped it into the nearby bucket of water, and took a long drink. His gaze was unfocused, peering into the distance, despite the forest blocking his view.
“You should tell her how you feel,” Callan said, surprising himself.
Gunnarr stopped drinking. Callan continued on, figuring that since he had already opened his big, stupid mouth, he might as well shove the whole foot in.
“You like her. It’s obvious you like her. It’s obvious to anyone that it’s more than a flash of lust you might have for some trollop you take for a roll in your tent. You respect her. And respect is the foundation that real love sprouts from. You should tell her, before you lose the chance,” Callan said, choking up a bit on the last words as he thought of his own wife.
Gunnarr blushed, “It isn’t so easy as that.” Callan had expected a denial, or a rude remark, yet Gunnarr was giving him an honest answer.
“Yes, it really is,” Callan said, feeling an unfamiliar moment of bonding with the warrior. “I was in the same place you are now, falling in love, and uncertain what to do about it. Well, not exactly the same place. The woman I was wooing was more refined and certainly never…”
Callan glanced at Gunnarr’s face and saw the flash of irritation there.
“I mean, she wasn’t as outgoing as your lass. But I knew I had to do something. She’d been at court for a week, and was going to be heading back to her own city soon. It was unlikely I’d ever see her again. So before she could leave I screwed up my courage and told her. And, much to my surprise and delight, she told me she felt the same way,” Callan said smiling at the memory.
Gunnarr seemed to be seriously weighing Callan’s argument, so he pressed on.
“When we’re done with this quest, you’ll both go your merry ways. Each of you off on new adventures. I get the feeling you’ve been waiting a while to arrange getting in the same party she was in. I can’t believe you’re going to waste all that perfectly good scheming,” Callan said.
Gunnarr shook his head.
“You don’t understand. Warriors don’t usually take wives. Or husbands. It’s not a rule. It’s not forbidden, but our lives are so unpredictable. We never know where fate will toss us,” he said sadly, “nor when we’ll make our last stand. Warriors and weddings… that always ends in tears.”
“Rubbish,” Callan said. “There’s nothing to stop you two from working together from here on out. And if you choose not to tell her, and miss your chance to be together at all? How is that any better? No, I don’t buy it. If you don’t tell her, then it won’t be because of some warrior’s code. It’ll be because you’re too frightened to take a chance.”
Callan stood. “Tell her,” he didn’t wait for Gunnarr to reply.
“Now I’m going to relieve myself while the old hag isn’t about. She has this annoying habit of wandering by whenever I drop my trousers. I’m beginning to suspect she does it on purpose to torment me,” Callan said stalking off into the woods.
Gunnarr looked down at the ground, ashamed. He hadn’t replied to Callan because he knew the king was right. Gunnarr was afraid of telling Cass about his feelings. He didn’t want her to turn him aside, to tell him that she simply wanted to have some fun and be on her way. He looked up when he felt a tap on his arm.
Nat continued to tap him absently as he watched the area where Viola had gone with Gunnarr’s help to clean Cass up a bit. Gunnarr followed his gaze and nearly knocked the boy over as he rushed up and bolted toward a stream a short distance off.
Nat sheathed his now mirror-polished sword, but before he could follow Gunnarr, he heard Callan shouting from the woods.
“Get out of here, you toad! Can’t a man get some privacy?”
Inez came toddling into the campsite from the forest, a wicked smile on her face.
“That never gets old,” she snickered.
Then Inez saw Viola returning, a smile on her face, and her laughter halted abruptly.
“She still lives,” Inez said. For a moment Nat thought she sounded disappointed, but decided he was imagining it.
“Hey,” Viola, who had overheard her, frowned. “You don’t have to sound so upset about it.”
Inez scowled at the enchanter.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’ve been charmed like the rest of them. I can’t blame you for it. What the gods set in motion, few can resist,” Inez said.
“What are you going on about?” Viola asked.
Inez just waved her hand dismissively at Viola and crawled into her wagon. She began rummaging through her diminishing bag of food and dug out an old apple. She bit into it, then quickly spat out the piece and tossed the apple aside.
“Rotten, but it looked so sweet and ripe. Just shows you can’t always tell from looking. Well, we better get to Chulpe soon, now that our hero is all better. There isn’t much left here anyone will want to eat. We’d do better to press on than stop here to hunt and forage, as close as we are,” Inez said.
Gunnarr had carried Cass to the stream at Viola’s request just a short while earlier. Viola’s bare legs dangled in a small deep eddy at the stream’s edge, Cass lying beside her. Cass’ neck rested serenely on Viola’s thigh as she stirred the water with her foot. The water was clouded pink with the blood from Cass’ fair hair, but it was still cool and felt good. Viola sopped a cloth into the water, wrung it out a bit, and set back to working the remaining clumps of dried blood out of Cass’ hair.
After a half hour, Viola had gotten Cass’ hair clean enough that she could move her fingers through it, combing it as best she could. She picked up another cloth, this one dry, and patted at her hair. She let a stroke descend down to Cass’ cheek, where Viola let her hand linger. Before she knew what she was doing, she bent down and kissed Cass on her forehead.
Cass’ eyes fluttered open.
Viola pulled back with a look of embarrassed surprise, which was quickly replaced with genuine happiness. Cass raised her hand to touch her aching head.
“What happened,” she asked, squinting up into the sun and shielding her eyes.
“It seems Lireal’s daughter herself tried to take you away from us,” Viola said gently.
“Lireal,” Cass said holding her head, “The one who spurned Adone? She’s still around?”
“I don’t know about Lireal, but I can tell you her daughter isn’t anymore. Gunnarr made sure of that,” Viola said.
She helped Cass sit up. She leaned over upstream and filled a cup with clean water, which she offered to Cass. Cass took the drink from Viola’s hand gratefully. Then something clicked in her mind.
“The aswang,” she asked weakly, “Is everyone okay? I don’t remember anything else.”
“Everyone’s fine, aside from you. And now that you’re awake, I think we put you down in the fine column as well,” Viola said smiling, “but you did have us worried there for a while.”
“Oh good. Because for a moment I was afraid this was the afterlife,” Cass said still clutching her head, “and as far as afterlives go, this one falls a bit short.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s as bad as you think,” Viola said. Cass looked up in the direction Viola was looking to see Gunnarr hurrying over.
When Cass made an effort to get to her knees, Gunnarr pu
t on a burst of speed Viola would have thought impossible for such a big man. He dropped to his own knees before her, cupped her face in his huge hands, and gave her a long, deep kiss. Viola got up and moved away discretely.
“Oh,” Cass said when Gunnarr pulled away, “Viola was right. This afterlife does have something going for it after all.”
Despite the pain in her head, Cass managed to smile at the passionate warrior. Gunnarr let go of her face and gathered her hands tightly in his own. His demeanor, pure pleasure a moment ago, now turned dour.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help when you needed me,” Gunnarr said seriously.
“Well,” Cass said, struggling to stand. Gunnarr rose, then helped her up. “I’m guessing that you did more than help, since I’m here, rather than in Morte’s realm or crying my ass off as a new born babe. I think it would be a safe bet that you’re responsible for all of us still drawing breath.”
Gunnarr touched her head delicately, near the scar. He’d seen his fair share of battle-field medicine, and Viola’s work was top notch. But he had been a warrior for a long time, and knew head wounds could be tricky things.
“I don’t think we should travel today. We wouldn’t want all Viola’s hard work to be for nothing, having you die on route to Chulpe,” Gunnarr said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. In fact, I’d be willing to guarantee you we’ll all make it to the Temple,” Cass said. She took a hesitant step away from Gunnarr. When she found her legs would support her, she began heading back to the camp.
“You’re awfully confident, even for a warrior, especially for a warrior that just got knocked cold by a pig,” Gunnarr said jokingly.
Cass turned back to the Braldashadian. She looked into the sky, trying to decide just how much she could share with Gunnarr. She couldn’t let his doubts about her health slow them down, not with someone’s life at stake.
“I am. So are most people who’ve been seen,” Cass said, “yet haven’t yet lived that moment.”
